


Diminishing Returns

by youcouldmakealife



Series: Follow the North Star [11]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-07
Updated: 2017-04-07
Packaged: 2018-10-16 02:41:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10562052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: “Probably just going to head back to the hotel,” Connie says.“C’mon, I’ll buy you a drink,” Roman says, voice kind of horrifically, like, wheedling. He’s practically using the voice he uses when Zuza’s hiding under the bed. What iswrongwith him right now?“Next time,” Connie says, and Roman tries not to think about the fact that a year ago he would have jumped on that offer the second Roman made it, tries not to think about what it means that he didn’t.





	

Roman never realized quite how much Connie looked at him until he stopped. He’s been looking less often this season compared to last, but Roman’s caught him at it more than a few times, and it’s pretty clear it isn’t a lack of interest thing. Maybe he’s just gotten better at hiding it. The part of Roman that looks after him — and not just him, because that sounds weird, but all his rookies, former they may be — is a little proud of him for that, while that other part of Roman, the one he hasn’t much liked recently, is practically taking it as an insult.

But there’s a big difference between Connie before this trip, who was maybe not so obvious but still not exactly subtle, than Connie this trip, which is — it’s just nothing. Roman looks over, Connie’s chatting with Victor, or elbowing Harry, or blushing at whatever shit Fitzy’s saying to him, or nodding seriously along to whatever speech Dev’s trying out on him. Last season, that wouldn’t be the case. Sure, he’d be doing all the other things — except elbowing Harry, because last season Harry might have elbowed him back hard enough to break a rib — but inevitably he’d end up looking Roman’s way, and Roman wasn’t looking at him nearly as much back then, back when he thought he, you know, was actually a decent human being instead of whatever Connie’s made him. That sounds like Roman’s blaming him, and he’s not. Whatever Roman’s found in himself, spurred by Evan Connelly’s — Roman can’t even start, the list would be nauseating — spurred by Evan Connelly’s everything, that’s all on him. 

Roman’s not really a believer in signs or whatever, but the fact that Connie quits looking right around when Roman needs an excuse to stop looking at _him_ , well, that seems like a pretty clear one. It’s one thing to consider — or not consider, Roman’s not considering it, okay — starting something with someone despite the fact they’re inappropriately young and sweet and just…inappropriate in general, when there’s mutual interest you really shouldn’t follow through on, and it’s a whole other thing to consider it when there’s no sign of interest on their part. One’s stupid, one’s a whole lot stupider, and kind of shitty. Sounds like all the more reason to stop wanting him.

Except Roman _can’t_.

He tries. Of course he tries. He’s been trying from the start, from the moment he realized that the whole thing Connie had for him might not be one-way. Connie’s the dictionary fucking definition of inappropriate. He knew that the moment he got clubbed in the head with realization, and he knows that now. It’s like a broken record in his head, _don’t_ and _shut up_ featuring prominently, for all the good they’re doing. Roman is not very good at listening to, well, Roman. 

Witness the fact that when they win another game, the first thing Roman does is ask if Connie’s coming out like the most obvious loser in the entire world. He has no self-control. It’s gone. RIP, self-control.

He can practically _feel_ Harry giving him some massive stink-eye again, though he’s not going to look over to confirm that, keeps his eyes on Connie instead. It’s not hard. Keeping his eyes _off_ him is the hard part, this is straight up simple.

“Probably just going to head back to the hotel,” Connie says. 

“C’mon, I’ll buy you a drink,” Roman says, voice kind of horrifically, like, wheedling. He’s practically using the voice he uses when Zuza’s hiding under the bed. What is _wrong_ with him right now?

“Next time,” Connie says, and Roman tries not to think about the fact that a year ago he would have jumped on that offer the second Roman made it, tries not to think about what it means that he didn’t.

*

“Where’s Sweet Connie at?” Fitzy asks, halfway through their first drink. Roman’s sitting with him again, because Roman doesn’t learn. It’d probably be fine if there was anyone else at the table, because Fitzy would at least _try_ to stick to innuendo instead of inevitably outright poking at Roman, but he’s been straight up manic all day, and everyone is steering clear of him. They’re smarter men than Roman.

“Went back to the hotel,” Roman says. 

“Who’re you going to stare at soulfully without him here?” Fitzy asks, reaching the poking at him portion of the evening. Didn’t take long.

“Fitzgerald,” Roman says.

“Anyone else miss—” Fitzy starts.

“I’m really not in the mood for whatever you’re planning to chirp me about,” Roman snaps.

“Whoa,” Fitzy says. “Okay, dude. Getting to you, eh?”

“Yeah, you are,” Roman says. “Congrats.”

“Not what I meant,” Fitzy says. “But I’m going to take that as a yes.”

“Take it as this,” Roman says, and gives him the finger.

“I took it as that too,” Fitzy says cheerfully.

“Good,” Roman says. “Whoever says Canadians are nice and polite has never met you. I’m sure I’ve said that before, but it bears repeating.”

“Bet they met Connie though,” Fitzy says.

“Yeah,” Roman sighs. “Probably just met Connie and called it a day.”

“Is the whoever in this you?” Fitzy asks. 

“Probably,” Roman says, and he must look pathetic, because Fitzy pats his arm instead of saying anything.

“Look, I’m going to be serious for a sec,” Fitzy says after a minute.

Roman’s scared, and tells him so. Fitzy gives him the finger but gets all serious looking anyway.

“I know you’re kicking yourself in the balls over this,” Fitzy says. “Because you think he’s too young or inexperienced or whatever and you’re shitty for wanting him, but as someone who was a Connie back in my rookie year? Let him make his own decisions. He’s an adult.”

“You’re not even an adult now, I’m not buying that you were one as a rookie,” Roman says.

Fitzy sticks his tongue out, which: point proven.

“Just saying I kind of have personal experience with this,” Fitzy says. “Hell, Connie’s two years older than I was when Mike and I started shit, and I don’t think Mike regrets it considering the whole, like, living together thing. So.”

“Are you sure he doesn’t?” Roman asks. “You’re pretty annoying.”

“Rude,” Fitzy says. “See if I offer you advice again.”

“Please don’t,” Roman says.

Fitzy frowns at him deeply until Roman pokes the wrinkle between his eyebrows and he’s right back to smiley. If only everyone was as easy to handle as Liam Fitzgerald. Or, maybe handle’s not the right word, since he’s a pain in the ass, but you ruffle his feathers and he’s over it in less than a minute. Pretty stark difference from the way Harry’s a tightly wound spring about to bite his head off the next time he breathes in Connie’s direction. 

“Okay, you’re nosy as fuck,” Roman says.

“Rookie Detectives,” Fitzy interrupts.

“I didn’t say I wasn’t,” Roman says. “So I have a question.”

“Shoot,” Fitzy says.

“You have any idea why Harry’s been looking at me like he’s going to murder me lately?” Roman asks.

Fitzy starts laughing.

“Team harmony, Fitzy,” Roman says. “If you know, I want to.”

“You really don’t,” Fitzy says.

“I don’t know, I can’t fix whatever it is,” Roman says.

“Good luck with that,” Fitzy says, frustratingly oblique, and won’t tell Roman what the fuck he means no matter how many times Roman pokes him, which is unlike him, since he’s not just nosy, he’s shit at not spilling whatever it is he’s ferreted out. Frankly Roman’s a little surprised Fitzy hasn’t accidentally blurted out Roman’s feelings to Connie’s face, though he is grateful.

“When’d you learn to hold your tongue?” Roman asks, frustrated, when all a headlock does is serve to knock over Fitzy’s beer.

Fitzy doesn’t look up from where he’s mopping up the table. “M’not allowed to interfere,” he says.

“Interfere with _what_?” Roman asks, but Fitzy refuses to answer that too.

*

All Roman can do when he gets back to his room is think about Fitzy, and — no, not like that, man. Fitzy’s cute and all, but Roman thinks Brouwer would find a way to punch him in his _mind_ if he saw any of that going on in there. The unsolved mystery of whatever the fuck Fitzy knows that he isn’t telling him, and _why_ he isn’t telling him, nagging like a toothache, but, when it comes down to it, it’s put aside as he inevitably circles back to Connie.

Fitzy’s advice was less advice than a goad, which Roman thinks he was well aware of. A case-file of the fact that the worst case scenarios in his head aren’t the only possible outcome. Fitzy was eighteen, even, which — Jesus, how old was Brouwer? Fuck, Roman actually feels a little better about himself now, though feeling better about yourself because you’re judging someone else _so hard_ is not exactly a sign you _should_ feel better about yourself. 

Fitzy’s right, though: Connie’s an adult. Hell, he’s more of one than Roman was at twenty, considering he’s managing living alone thousands of miles from his family, while Roman was in a college dorm a whole two hours from his parents and ten minutes from his grandma. You have to grow up fast when you enter the show as young as he did. Roman acting like he’s too young to make his own mind up just because he isn’t legal to drink isn’t giving him nearly enough credit, especially when he’s handling rent and bills and car payments, working the same job as Roman, and managing it all with sunny smile.

Roman needs to talk to him. And not the ‘hey how are yas’ or chirping during pregame soccer, or all the other times he talks to Connie on a daily basis. Proper talk. Intentions talk. Because if Connie’s over him that’s fine, but he needs to know it for the sake of his damn sanity right now. And if he isn’t, well. That’s a different conversation.

He’s not doing it on the road, because if Connie isn’t interested any more, it’s fucked to lay it on him and then eat at the same table, or get on the same plane, or whatever. If Connie’s going to let him down gently, Roman’s going to give him some room to escape the inevitable awkward that follows.

_And he lives alone_ , Roman’s brain traitorously says, but he shuts that shit right down. Connie’s a wine and dine kind of guy — except he doesn’t like wine so beer and dine, Roman guesses — and anyway, Roman’s got a room of his own on the road, so that doesn’t make sense as an argument even if he was considering it. Which he isn’t. Or he guesses he is, if that’s what Connie wants, but Connie deserves better than the thoughts that elbow their way in when his hand’s around his dick, crossing the wires between ‘treating him right’ and ‘treating him _right_ ’. 

So. A talk. He’ll think about it. Nothing much else he can do tonight, other than jerk off. Roman’s got this game going lately where he tries to do everything in his power not to think about Connie while he’s doing it. He’s not very good at it. One day he’ll win, though, he hopes.

*

By the time they’re gearing up for their last game of the roadie, Roman’s rehearsed about a million different things he might say. He’s also wavered about a million times between deciding to do it and telling himself it’s a horrible fucking idea and he needs to hold his tongue, but he may as well have a game-plan. Worst case he doesn’t say a thing and he’s wasted his time on mental speeches, and let’s be real: it’d take more effort _not_ to make those speeches in his head than to make them, right now, since he’s got Connie on the brain a truly upsetting amount of the day.

It doesn’t help that Connie’s always _there_. Connie at breakfast, sleepy-eyed and soft down to the smile he shoots Harry in response to whatever Harry needs to use his fork as emphasis to say. Connie whooping when him and Berg beat Roman and Victor at the hybrid two-touch dodge ball _whatever_ him and Val and Victor cooked up in their rookie year and has mostly caught on as pregame ritual. Connie trying to hide that he’s eating around the green peppers in his pasta, then stoically eating them all when Fitzy calls him on it, mostly managing to hide his grimace.

Connie right now, concentrating on strapping himself into his shoulder pads, the corner of his bottom lip between his teeth, and Roman, once again, can’t help staring. Connie looks up at him, mouth quirking into a smile when he sees Roman looking back, and it’s like the sun breaking through a cloudy day. Cheesy, but apparently Roman’s got himself a crap Hallmark poetry streak when it comes to him, so it’s not even in the top ten of cheesy ass shit he’s thought, unfortunately.

And maybe Roman needs to keep his mouth shut — there are a whole lot more cons than pros in the mental list he’s got going in his head, the number one, all caps, _HE IS YOUR TEAMMATE_ , and then quietly beneath it _you’re asking to get hurt_ — but this seems like a sign, again, another sign Roman supposedly doesn’t believe in. Except unlike the first one, this time he listens, probably because it’s nudging him toward what he wants to do anyway.

_When we get home,_ Roman decides, and smiles helplessly back at him.


End file.
